


Not A Mask

by 50Lizardsinatrenchcoat



Series: Trope Generated [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Magic, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Changelings, Dream is a fairy, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Foster Care, Gen, Kidnapping, Magic, Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, One Shot, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Tommy is stolen by the fae, Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, inspired by the spiderwick chronicals, loosely but still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28930182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/50Lizardsinatrenchcoat/pseuds/50Lizardsinatrenchcoat
Summary: Tommy can't sleep one night, so he's the only one awake when a haunting voice calls out into the night to lure in unsuspecting souls.(Or: Dream is a fae who steals Tommy away from the Sleepy Bois.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: Trope Generated [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2121822
Comments: 24
Kudos: 209





	Not A Mask

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt generated from TV Tropes: [Not A Mask](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/NotAMask)

Middle of winter in some ancient mansion. Peachy. Tommy huffs and kicks at the footboard of the bed, sending a poof of dust sprawling from the worn quilt, the particles catching the moonlight streaming in from the cracked blinds. It’s not like Tommy wanted to be there. But even though he was clearly a big man, Phil wouldn’t let him hang behind in their old house by himself. Techno wouldn’t stay and babysit because he planned to rifle through the contents of the attic in search of anything cool. Wilbur couldn’t be trusted to watch a fish, forget Tommy. So Tommy had to come.

Honestly, the whole thing was stupid. One of Phil’s buddies wanted them to check out a family estate they inherited, so here they were. The middle of fuck-off, middle-of-nowhere, in a dingy house with sagging roofs and ceiling stains of dubious origins. Ugh. At least they were getting paid.

Tommy flipped himself over onto his side and stared across the room where Wilbur was dead asleep on top of the bed opposite Tommy’s. His crackling snores could break glass. It broke Tommy’s sleep at the least. The digital clock sitting on the nightstand read 2:34 AM. And he was still awake. 

Pale light from the half-closed window intermingled with the red glow of the passage of time. His eyelids were heavy enough to drip off his face and puddle on the floor, but slumber nevertheless flipped him off and refused to cooperate. Every snore, every _tap, tap, tap,_ of bare tree branches against the window panes, every groan of the wooden floors, they all sent another jolt of wakefulness to jump behind his brain as rest hissed and hid beneath the bed instead of on top of it.

Techno was in the room next door, and Philza was down the hall. Neither would be pleased to be roused so late in the night, especially not for something pointless like temporary insomnia. Any potential ire wouldn’t be worth it. Ever since he’d been adopted, Philza said to wake them up if he needed help, but did they mean it? He didn’t even need help; he just couldn’t relax. It was fine.

Tommy tossed the feather pillow on his head and scrunched his eyes shut. If he focused enough on not hearing anything, then he would fall asleep. It was a foolproof plan to induce relaxation. Brute force sleep. That made perfect sense.

For the slightest hopeful second, the antique bedroom grew muffled and sound drifted through his ears, not staying long enough to register. The low drone of the house cushioned his drift. His breathing slowed and his buzzing nerves quieted themselves.

_Bang!_

A sharp crack shot through the building, setting Tommy alight and shooting out of bed. The sheets ensnared his ankles on his way down. The thunk as his shoulder slammed into the hardwood floor reverberated throughout the air and into the walls.

Tommy froze in the silence. The room held its breath. Nothing moved.

And then the floor groaned, Wilbur snored again, and the tree knocked on the window once more. He sighed and struggled upright. 

What woke him up? What could’ve made a sound like that, and why didn’t Wilbur notice? His brother was still curled up around a spare pillow like a koala, snoring tv static sounds. He didn’t even shift.

Did Tommy imagine it? He slumped on the edge of the mattress, dragging his sock-covered feet along the smooth floor. Sometimes when he was about to slip into unconsciousness, his stomach would drop into the reality below then slingshot back into place, shoving him into the waking world with a jolt of adrenaline. Maybe it was nothing, only his brain checking that he hadn’t died yet.

He sighed and melted into the worn quilt. It had to be nothing. He pushed his eyes closed and-

And then the song started.

A low, droning voice sang wordlessly, the mournful aria unlike anything produced by a human. The voice ( _was it a voice at all?_ ) ran smooth like river silt over water-slick stones, absent of the normal babbles from the stream splashing on jagged rock. No other tones accompanied the crying, but the swell of the melody alone filled all the empty spaces and cracks in Tommy’s brain. 

A tug, a pull, a deepening call to do _something_ wormed its way into the forefront of his mind. The blanket slid back with a swipe of his arm, legs padding him towards the door. His hands grasped the knob and his body slipped into the hall.

Walls and decor fell away. Tommy needed the song. To be close to it, to revel in its beauty. To exist only with the music. The counters bumped into him as he drifted through the kitchen, through the parlor, and out the front entrance.

Crispy night air wrapped around him and tugged at his pajamas, leading him out onto the porch, down the steps, and deep into the woods. Faint echoes of the previous resonance started and stopped in the distance. His paces wobbled down a worn dirt path he hadn’t noticed when they arrived that evening, towards the source of the sound.

Even as the ice nipped at Tommy’s exposed cheeks and rocks poked and prodded into the soles of his feet, he wanted, no, _needed_ , to stumble onward. Something deep within cried out. He couldn’t tell what it wanted, but he _needed_ the song.

At long last, the path fell away into an emerald glen. Weeping willow trees surrounded the circular clearing in velvet drapings, dew refracting the moon’s glow like diamond tears. A lanky figure swathed in a green cloak sat perched on a stone in the dead center of the opening, the only place in unrestricted view of the glittering tapestry above. They held their spine straight, arms up as their voice warbled into the twilight.

Tommy stepped into the clearing, over a line of mushrooms. His limbs locked into stone. Nothing had the power to make him move at that point. The only thing that mattered was the bewitching music that held his soul on its melody.

After a moment lost to time, the song wrapped itself up; the figure wound themself back up as well, standing tall yet hunched, gangly limbs pulled close to their broad but skinny frame. They rocked to their feet and spun on their heels. A glossy porcelain face stared back at Tommy. Not a realistic face; just a crude, wobbly line for a smile and smudges for eyes in dark coal. The figure tilted their head to the side.

For an expectant moment, neither spoke.

The figure went first. 

“You wished to hear me sing?” Their speaking voice contradicted their singing; gone was the silken deep tone and forlorn beauty, replaced with gravel and wit. They smiled with words alone.

Tommy nodded slowly. “Yeah, uh. It. Sounded nice.” Tommy’s tongue sat heavy in his mouth, scarcely cooperating. His thoughts swam through thick syrup away from each other, away from coherency. “Do you always wear a mask?”

The figure threw their head back and cackled, the harsh sound spiking against the wooded glade. They turned their skull to expose their jawline. The porcelain white blended into peachy, matte skin. “I wear no mask and bear no false truths.”

Tommy blinked. “Do you… Do you have a face?”

The figure did not emote but stared deep into Tommy’s soul anyway. “Do you?”

He didn’t know how to answer that. Seconds passed. He couldn’t tether his thoughts down until they drifted off into the trees. He couldn’t think. Why couldn’t he think? What was happening? Where was-

“May I have your name?” The worry evaporated under the figure’s soothing voice. Tommy looked up. The figure was a pace closer. They stared at him. 

“Oh, uh… It’s. Tommy.” 

The figure’s face did not change, but their aura smiled anyway. They did not speak.

Tommy swallowed roughly. “What’s...” his mind fluttered for a moment before snapping back into place. “What’s yours?”

They dipped their head. The impression they were still staring dead into him remained. “You may call me Dream.” They turned to face the stars once more. “Or Nightmare. It depends on your perspective.” Mirth warmed their voice. The impression they were still staring dead into him remained.

Tommy didn't move. Where would he go? The figure hadn’t moved yet. He would not move either. And once they started singing again, he was truly gone.

It may have been seconds. Minutes, perhaps. The sun painted over the stars with brushstrokes of gold and blushing pink, telling the passage of hours in the winter night.

At long last, Dream turned back to Tommy. “Do you wish to hear the song forever? Do you wish to come with me?”

Tommy nodded, unable to speak. Words evaded him, but he couldn’t be without the beautiful melody entrenching his senses.

Dream stalked forward and held out their hand. Tommy’s arm lifted to meet theirs and everything went black.

/////////////////

Wilbur woke up slowly, golden sunlight sifting over his blankets from the window. The bed was warm and his pillows soft, but something roused him from his slumber anyway. A pinprick, a tremor, a tiny, dizzying sensation of _wrong_ wormed inside his skin and made its home in his brain. He grimaced and pushed himself up, stretching with the motion.

“Good morning.” Wilbur jolted and twisted to face Tommy. His little brother sat criss-cross on his bed, not a single wrinkle in the covers. But his eyes. Something in his eyes bored into Wilbur’s soul and screamed with unfamiliarity. 

Wilbur blinked several times and rubbed at his face with his free hand. When he looked at Tommy again, the uncanny discomfort had dissipated. His eyes were the same youthful blue as ever and his posture was slouched, same as always. But the nerves remained.

Wilbur smiled like plastic. “Morning, Gremlin Child. You’re up early.”

Tommy shrugged. “I wanted to watch the sunrise.” He slid off the bed and padded out of the room. Wilbur followed him with his eyes until the door clicked shut, before letting his gaze fall back to their shared alarm clock. 7:25 AM.

Tommy never got up before nine without complaining.

Something was wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> This??? Was supposed to be short???? It got a bit away from me! The ending was open, so maybe I'll tack on another chapter or two if inspiration strikes^^


End file.
